Unwritten
by Alas Poor Yorcake
Summary: One-shot! Mr. Lancer assigns an essay. Danny completes it to the best of his abilities. Rated for one bad word.


**A/N: Well, here goes the Danny Phantom fandom. I love it though, because this show can get me out from under any writers block. It's great! Hope you enjoy! Oh, and, I don't own Danny Phantom. Duh. Why on Earth would I write Phantom Planet, then?**

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_Unwritten_

_Danny Fenton_

_1\. Unwritten, unraveling secrets, unraveling words, strings of destiny, webs of thought once intertwined, once whole, now only string, each one snapped, not by the strength at which they are pulled more with each passing day, but instead with the sharp blade of a sudden shift, one clench and one drag to pull the wool out from in front of your eyes. And then, instead of a web, thought to be made from strings, fabrics of reality and space and time, instead replaced by threads and silk, smooth as they are, for they could only be lies. And, unlike the sudden, sharp twist of fate that cuts through the strings and webs like a knife through butter, my life is unraveling, unwritten._

_2\. Secrets are like pockets. You keep the truth hidden in small pockets of lies and deceit, and the pocket is figured as much, to be untruthful, only because no one can see the depth of the pocket, the strength of the pocket. But only the best pockets are shallow. Only the best pockets are weak, because whatever is in the pocket is never hidden – not really. Not if it is a good, solid pocket. The truth is always weak, always flimsy. We have come to turn on our own instincts – we lie with strength and truth with weakness in our limbs, through our veins, and we blame. We blame and we refuse responsibility for the shaking of our selves, putting it off on shock, putting it off on anger, putting it off on lies._

_3\. I'm supposed to write what I'm afraid of. Not what others fear, not what makes other quiver and shake and blame. But, rather, what I put upon myself to incite a response that makes our connections between people and animals and everything around us, stronger. To be blunt, I do not believe in fear._

_4\. Yes, you can be scared. Yes, you can be terrified, and yes, you can even faint from this response your body is telling you, that your mind is concocting. But fear is built on a fantasy, not on reality. And, as we are taught in our schools, by our teachers, if something does not have a stable structure, how can it stand? And yet, we continue to believe in fear, again shifting the blame, simply because we must label what is happening, letting others know that they must not suffer the same things, they will not suffer the same consequences. _

_5\. Sometimes, I wonder what might happen, should my life fully unravel, string curling into other strings, until each is separate, loose, disconnected, and everyone can see the truth (lies)._

_6\. Because when you look at the truth, you do not see what really happened. Instead, you see what you have been told, what fantasies others have formed in your minds, and you turn it – all of your emotions of sadness, anger, frustration – on others, blaming them instead of you. And it works._

_7\. Until it doesn't._

_8\. Because then there comes a time when it doesn't work and you realize – you finally realize, like some fog has been cleared away from your vision, glasses finally placed on your nose, the wool pulled from in front of your eyes. And then – and only then – can you fully, truthfully, (dishonestly) blame._

_9\. We ask each other, 'what do you fear?' , 'what makes you angry?' , 'what makes you sad?' , 'what do you hate the most?'. And we blame others. We put it on other things – clowns, abuse, animals, we even put it on emotions, fear itself, self-righteous anger, sadness shown in certain forms, irritation – while, really, none of those things really take a reaction from us. It's how we, ourselves, use those things, take those things into perspective, and handle them as to find the truth (spot the lies). And, because we experience these feelings, these emotions, based upon others with our own happenings, we learn to shimmy everything onto other people, when instead, it is all directed inwards. _

_10\. But we don't dare say that, we don't dare tell anybody else that we fear ourselves, we make ourselves angry, we sadden ourselves, and we hate ourselves the most – because society ridicules us for it. And, yet, what does this do but strengthen these feelings, self-loathing and self-hate, these things we were trained – bred – to feel. These things, that if we show, cause us to be shunned, for we have spoken the truth, not looking for lies, but instead for salvation._

_11\. I am afraid of myself. I am scared for what might come to be, should I take one wrong turn, one wrong step on this ledge I am precariously dangling off of, waiting for somebody to pull me either which way, though I am never sure which way is the right way, which is wrong, or which should simply be._

_12\. I hate myself the most. I hate myself, for what I am, who I am, and who I will be. Who I may be could already be set in stone, and, despite the fear that courses through my veins when I think about it, I am resigned, accepting towards my fate, my destiny, what I have done, and what I have to do. I have been prepared, trained, bred for these moments, and I will stand by what has been done unjustly to me, out of fear of being shunned, fear of isolation._

_13\. And, I lead back to the beginning of the circle – I fear myself, what could become of me. And, the quickest way to become what I might be could only be isolation. Loneliness has always been my greatest fear, though it has never really been that at all. After, all, I have learned not to siphon off the blame. I do not fear loneliness, I fear what I will become with loneliness._

_14\. I do not feel. I wonder what it must be like to be affected by people and things that feel, and, if I ever happen to stumble upon that one person, I shall make the most of what I can, until my fleeting life is over and death overtakes me, life beginning after death, but I digress._

_15\. All I've ever wanted is to meet a person who can feel. Who knows what it is like to be around others who do not. _

_16\. Who does not blame others, nor blames themselves._

_17\. I want to meet a person who does not feel._

_18\. Simply because I do._

_19\. I fear ever meeting a person who does not feel._

_20\. Simply because I do._

_21\. I fear, not for myself, not for others, but for no one._

_22\. Simply because I do._

_23\. The strings are unraveling._

_24\. But I finally realize:_

_25\. My fear was never there._

_5, 1, 10 ; _

_2, 5, 12 ; _

_3, 2, 26 ; _

_19, 1, 18 ; _

_12, 1, 2 ; _

_4, 4, 20 ; _

_7, 1, 2;_

_5, 1, 5;_

_15, 2, 6_

_25, 1, 1_

Mr. Lancer frowned, staring at the last line on the paper, the line he wrote, until he finally realized he had been looking at it for more than a few minutes. Of course, no one could blame him if he didn't get it at first.

He suddenly jerked up, his grading pen leaving a smooth, curling line at the top of the page in bold, red ink. Hands shaking, Mr. Lancer lifted the pen carefully from where it had fallen from his grasp, and wrote a shaky, A+ at the top.

He stood, taking care not to bend the paper in any wrong way as he picked it up, picked himself up from his chair, and walked somewhat steadily to the door, stealing a glance back at the boy sleeping soundly in the corner of his classroom, the bags under his eyes almost the same shade of black as his raven-shining hair. Baby-blue eyes fluttered open, and connected with violet (Manson), then teal (Foley), and finally shut once more. Mr. Lancer sighed, shaking his head slightly as he headed out of the room, carrying the paper to the copying machine, where he made 24 copies.

He spent the rest of class time folding the papers and putting them in envelopes, addressing them to teachers all around with a note: "You'll never believe it until you read it."

Mr. Lancer looked up one last time at the boy across the room, and flinched.

Baby blue eyes pierced his, not blinking once until Mr. Lancer nodded once, slowly, inconspicuously. The boy blinked, standing and heading out of the room.

Mr. Lancer watched him go, one thought crossing his mind until he chuckled, getting his stuff together to leave for the day.

_Bathroom, my Ass._

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**A/N: Complete! Didn't get it? Here:**

**In case you were wondering, the first number in each three number sequence meant the paragraph number. Those are the numbers by all of the indents by each next paragraph. The second number is the line it's in in that paragraph. The third number is the letter. Punctuation and spaces are not included - I said letters, not characters. After decoding it, it spells out, I Am Phantom. **

**I got bored, gimme a break. Whatever. Hope you liked it, still think you'd be cool if you R&amp;R!**

**~IsomorphicTARDIS**


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